


falling like the stars

by stevenassrogers



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), F/F, F/M, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), and keep their character development, and steve pours milk before cereal, endgame but your faves live, i kill off gordon ramsay, sorry kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 08:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19081393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevenassrogers/pseuds/stevenassrogers
Summary: In the five years since the world they knew ended, they found solace in each other, until a brief encounter with fate gives them the chance to change everything.A post-Infinity War and Endgame re-write.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Steve would never let Nat live in the Avengers facility alone, change my mind. Also Steve is a bad cook, it’s canon.
> 
> Title from James Arthur’s song of the same name.

It’s like a ritual now. She wakes up in his arms, the white silk sheets of the bed cold against their warm, entangled bodies as he presses gentle kisses down her spine, drawing out her good morning in a content sigh. He’s perfect like this, mussed blonde hair golden under the first rays of the morning sun, blue eyes almost grey with the haze of sleep, a lazy, boyish smile on his lips. And for a moment she can’t help but to contemplate the irony of it all, how it took the darkest of times for them to finally find this, this _happiness_.

_What did it cost?_

_Everything._

They had lost everything. Everyone. Nick. Sam. Wanda. Vision. T’challa. Hell, even the kid Tony had picked up from Queens had vanished into thin air.

Half the population, _gone_. To say they were not prepared for this amount of devastation was an understatement. For months, families, cities, and entire countries fought to put themselves back together. Natasha had done everything she could to help bring order in the year of chaos that ensued, but she couldn’t do anything to subdue the uncertainty that loomed over them, a constant shadow of doubt and grief that hung on every fake smile, every bit of laughter, like salt in the wound of the healing.

And she’d almost done it alone.

The Avengers disbanded shortly after they left the Garden. Some had found a way to live on; Tony and Pepper had gotten married and had a beautiful daughter, Morgan, and Bruce was last heard finding success in experiments with the Hulk. Others fell into their despair; Thor had disappeared to New Asgard, only ever leaving his home to restock his supply of Asgardian mead, and Clint. _Clint_. She couldn’t bear to think about him.

These were the people she called her family; now they were so broken it felt like she’d lost them too.

Of course, they had all been lucky enough to survive the Decimation (that’s what they called it now). But some days she found herself almost, _fuck_ , just _almost_ , wishing they hadn’t, because knowing they had left each other, had left her, one by one, in a time of such hopelessness and defeat, that somehow hurt more.

Steve was the only one who stayed, and honestly, she doesn’t know where she’d be if he had left her too. For the past three years, the two drowned themselves, Steve in his support group, Natasha in her training, and at the end of the day, they would drown together, in each other, until she didn’t know where she ended and where he began. And she never wanted to come up for air.

Some call it hell. She calls it happiness. At least, it’s the most happiness she’s known in years, though why they couldn’t have found it sooner is a mystery she could never seem to solve.

“You okay?” His voice is soft against the nape of her neck.

She nods, the faintest of smiles crossing her lips. “I’m fine.”

She’s not, he thinks as he smooths his thumb over the creases between her brows, a hint of worry showing between his own. She smiles, but her eyes are empty. That’s all she’s been in the past two years, a ghost, a shell of her former self. And it scares him how hard it hit her. Of course, it had hurt them all, but Natasha was always the strongest one, the one who would rather die than put her emotions out on display. In that sense, she hasn’t changed, but he knows of the crying behind closed doors, the wiping away of tears when he’s not quite looking, the sneaking of cigarettes on the balcony when she thinks he’s fallen asleep.

But at this moment he doesn’t ask any more questions. There’s a trust between them now that goes beyond words, beyond these feelings. She trusts him with her _life_ , her _heart_ , and she’s proven on various occasions that he could entrust his with her.

She’ll tell him when she’s ready, if she ever would be.

He silences her thoughts with a languid kiss, weaving a hand into her hair. It had grown out over the years so that the bright red reached her shoulders, yet the blonde tips remained, almost as a reminder of the pain they carried with them everywhere.

She kisses him back, growing in hunger, desire, and he opens his mouth to let it take over. He dips a hand down to her stomach and slips under the hem of her camisole, finding the roughness of the scar the Winter Soldier had left on her all those years ago. The satisfaction of hearing her moan makes him reach a little higher, until his hand is over her breast. Her own hands roam the planes of his chest, every touch hotter, lower than the last, until his hardened length is painfully straining against the fabric of his briefs.

But his own pleasure can wait. He grabs her wrists and pins them above her head. She likes him like this: a little rough, a little harsh. It had taken a long time for her to convince him that this was good, that she enjoyed it, and when she finally did, when he finally let himself be in charge, it was pure ecstasy.

He pulls the camisole off of her in one smooth movement. Before she has time to react to the cold air on her skin, he’s planting a row of kisses down her chest, beneath her navel, fingers dancing around the thin fabric of her underwear. That comes off of her torturously slowly, he makes sure of it, and he takes pride in the way she arches her back and spreads her legs in protest.

 _God_ , how did he ever get so lucky?

She’s already wet with wanting, aching for his touch, and he obliges, licking a broad stroke over her sex, relishing in the way her hands thread their way through his hair, urging him to keep going. His eyes meet hers from between her legs and she can’t help but giggle (since when did she _giggle_ ) at the sight of him like this.

“Shouldn’t we eat breakfast first?”

The corner of his mouth tugs into a smug grin. That _dumbass_. “I already am.”

He pushes two fingers inside her, curling them just right as he presses his thumb to her clit, circling over the sensitive nerves, taking her closer and closer to the edge, a string of Russian curses falling from her lips. His mouth finds the pulse of her throat, and somehow knowing that it’ll leave a mark makes him suck harder on the softness of her skin. But before she can get where he knows she wants to be, he stops, and it takes everything in her power to hold back a strained whimper of desperation.

 _My turn_. Sitting up, she hooks her fingers into the top of his briefs, and pushes them down to his ankles so that he can kick them off the side of the bed. She’d seen him like this many times before, but _Christ_ , it never gets old. A swipe of her tongue across the tip of his length has him lost in a wave of pleasure, and it isn’t long before she’s closing her lips over him, taking note of the way his breath hitches, the muscles in his body tensing up as he tries not to bury himself in the warmth of her mouth. His patience wears thin, with every hum of her throat bringing him closer to his climax.

“Fuck, Nat, I’m—”

She denies him the chance. The way her mouth comes off of him is absolutely obscene, and ten years ago, it would have sent him into a furious blush, but now, he can’t stop the titillating thoughts of what he wants to do to her from running through his head.

She brings him down on top of her and kisses him hard. It’s almost shameful how much pleasure he gets from the way his taste mixes with hers on their tongues. When she pulls away, it’s green eyes on blue, and somehow, it feels the most intimate they’ve been all morning despite their state of undress. An “I need you” said in complete silence.

He slides inside her slowly, carefully, then all at once, and it earns him a lustful moan that he takes as his cue to move. They find their rhythm with ease. It’s fast, it’s hot, and it’s heavy, and it’s almost muscle memory by now, but the pleasure feels just as new as it did the first time they made love like this. Her legs are wrapped around his back, and this time, she doesn’t hold back the loud wails that escape her lips as he finds the perfect spot inside of her. The bed creaks beneath them; the headboard rattles against the wall as she grasps it so tightly her knuckles turn white, and for a second, Steve can’t help but be thankful they have the place to themselves, because the sounds they’re making are practically pornographic.

They teeter on the edge of pure bliss, and she’s so _goddamn_ close that she’s writhing underneath him, chasing her release.

His fingers circle her clit as he presses an open kiss behind her ear, where he knows it makes her melt. “Come for me, Nat. Let go.”

That was all she needed to push her over, and she falls apart with his name on her lips like prayer from the mouth of a saint. The tightening of her walls around him, sending him down seconds after, and he comes inside her with an unrestrained groan against her neck, and perhaps an “I love you” hidden within it.

He’s never said it before. Neither of them have. Not out loud. Not to each other. But they say it in stolen glances, worried looks, and moments like this.

They lie beside each other, face to face, breathless, for what seems like an eternity as he rubs small circles on her arm. “You know what? I think I actually enjoyed today’s breakfast.”

“Yeah? Well, it was slightly better than the pancakes you made last week.” She eyes him pointedly, her signature smirk more teasing than her words. “Slightly.”

“Well, I don’t know about you,” he says, kissing her forehead, her nose, then, chastly, her lips, “But I’m still hungry.”

She shakes her head as he moves over on top of her again; her laugh is like music to his ears. “You’re insatiable, Rogers.”

“What can I say? I can do this all day.”

* * *

When Natasha gets out of the shower, she’s greeted by the unmistakable smell of bacon. She doesn’t even realize how hungry she is until her feet are betraying her, and before she can even put on proper clothes, she’s walking into the kitchen, pulling her black bathrobe just a little tighter at the sight in front of her. Steve stands in a light grey henley and dark jeans, back to her as he prods at a pan of scrambled eggs on the stove with a wooden spatula. It’s almost strange to see Captain America being so domestic, but she finds it surprisingly endearing. Besides, was he even Captain America these days anymore?

He catches her through the corner of his eye as she saunters over to the island behind him, where a plate of cooked bacon sits on the marble countertop. “Would you look at that?” She breaks off a corner of the meat and finds that it’s a little crispier than she likes, but she manages to both chew _and_ swallow it. “That’s actually almost edible.”

Natasha would never consider herself a picky person, especially when it came to food. Not when missions often required her to cook canned beans in microwaves or instant oatmeal over wood fires. But it didn’t take her long to find out that Steve’s cooking was less than enjoyable, which wasn’t all that surprising since he lived a good chunk of his life on food rations and boiled cabbage or potato soups.

“I’ll take almost,” he chuckles as he sets down a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her.

“Is that...paprika on top?” she questions with a suspecting brow. “Since when did you get so fancy with the spices?”

“Just thought I’d try something new.” Nodding toward the plate, he hands her a fork. “Here, try it.”

With a false reluctance, she flips through the pile of eggs before tasting the smallest piece. “Wow, uh—”

“That bad, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, that’s what it sounded like you were saying.”

She shakes her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Sorry, Gordon Ramsay.”

The name clearly doesn’t ring a bell, his face showing nothing but confusion.

“Celebrity chef? He had this show where he went to the worst restaurants in the world and turned them into these five star places in a week.”

“Must not have made it onto my list.” The plates are pushed to the side as he heads to the fridge for a jug of milk before pulling out two boxes in the cabinet above him. “So, Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Frosted Flakes?”

“Is that even a question?”

He sets two bowls and spoons onto the countertop and pours the milk first (to this day, she still has no idea why), then Cinnamon Toast Crunch after (again, _no idea why_ ), pushing the bowl with less milk across to her. Just the way she likes it.

“So, what time’s your meeting today?” she asks, a spoonful of cereal in her mouth.

“Two. I should probably head out soon.” He pauses with a breath of hesitation that’s grown all too familiar to her, so much that a small part of her fears what comes next.

“You know my offer still stands.”

This isn’t the first time he’s mentioned it, and her answer has always been the same.

“I’m fine, Steve.” She stares down blankly at her reflection in the back of her spoon to avoid the concern of his gaze.

“You can't keep going on like this."

"I said, I’m fine."

"Natasha—"

"Steve, _please_ , leave it—"

"You need to talk to someone, Nat!” The harshness of his tone startles her, and her eyes dart up only for a second, but long enough to notice the clenching of his jaw, the furrowing of his brows. “You can't just shut everyone out." His voice softens. “Don’t shut me out.”

There’s a hint of pleading in his voice, but she chooses to ignore it, because the implications that it comes with are something she’s spent too long considering, and she doesn’t want to, no,  _can't_  anymore.

“You’ve been putting up this front for three years, Nat. I know you’re hurting. _I’m_ _fucking_ _hurting_. But goddamn it, _let me help you_ ,” he swallows heavily, as if those words had dried his throat completely. “And I know you’re drinking again.” It's with shame that he admits to it. Shame of how long he's known and done nothing, not wanting to pry, hoping that she would come to him herself. Shame that he had only let it happen. Had let her spiral. "I found a bottle under the bathroom sink."

 _Fuck_. The back of her throat begins to burn, her eyes stinging with tears that threaten to fall. Part of her knows that she could have done a better job at hiding the bottles. He always seemed to find them. But then again, maybe it’s because deep down she wanted him to. The Black Widow doesn't slip up. Not like this.

When she finally looks up, it’s with an anger building like lightning in her eyes, but not at him. At herself.

“Why do you care?” It’s not meant to be a challenge, yet she can tell that’s the way it comes off to him because he looks at her, pained or just stunned, she can't tell.

He opens his mouth to say something, but she doesn’t stay to hear it. Before he can reply, she's storming out of the kitchen, stopping halfway through the hallway only when she knows she’s out of his line of sight to turn and catch a glimpse of him, a wave of relief and a tinge of disappointment washing over her when she realizes that he hadn’t followed.

But there’s only one place she wants to be now.

By the time she grabs the headphones, leg warmers, pointe shoes, and backup flask hidden in the back of her sock drawer, she hears the soft hum of his motorcycle in the driveway, and finds herself wishing that when he comes back, she won’t be awake to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, and for all the love on my last work. It really gave me the drive I needed to get this baby out. Hoping to get the second chapter up some time in the next two weeks. Please feel free to leave comments on what you want to see next because I’m always open to new ideas!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony learn some things about guilt, but before they can forgive each other, they must slowly find their way toward forgiving themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the *almost* two month delay. This is my first attempt at a multichapter fic and I struggle with being happy with anything I write, which just means I write two sentences and then delete them over and over again, but I think I can work with this version. Thanks for the love and encouragement, they have definitely helped me through times when I thought of just giving up on this story. Hope you enjoy this chapter! (more notes at the end)

Tony’s been through hell and back. He’s looked into the eyes of death, dared death to take him, and each time, death has granted him mercy. But when he watched Peter disappear in his arms, helpless, he wished his end would come too.

And now, standing in front of the Parker residence, he truly does wish death had come for him sooner.

He’s ashamed that it’s taken him this long, but everytime he came here, _every single_ _goddamn_ _time_ , he would stop himself from knocking on that door, because the thought of seeing May in an empty apartment grieving her child (because Peter really was _her_ child) while he was finally living the life he’s always dreamed of with a family he’s always wanted destroyed every last remaining drop of courage inside him. 

But today is different.

Today is the day Tony Stark finally owns up to the death of Peter Parker.

There’s a quick shuffling on the other side of the door, then a stillness, a vague hesitation, and suddenly it’s flung wide open. It isn’t until he’s face to face with her that he realizes he’s been holding his breath, letting it go only to say a hasty hello. She’s changed, as people do with time, but the three years look like a decade on her. A knit cardigan is pulled loosely over the white shirt and jeans that seem too big for her now alarmingly smaller frame. Her hair is speckled with grey, less than his own, but much more than most people have at her age. And her eyes. Behind the wide-rimmed glasses are eyes that have felt too much loss, too much pain. 

_It’s your fault._

“Mr. Stark.” It’s not so much a greeting as it is a note of surprise.

His hands have somehow found their way into his pant pockets, an effort to hide the physical manifestation of his growing anxiety. “Tony,” he corrects nonchalantly, following it with a grimace that would have been a smile had the circumstances been any different.

They stand there in an awkward indifference for a moment longer than he’s comfortable with before she invites him in with a simple gesture toward the living room. 

Everything looks the same, if a tad messier; then again, he barely remembers how it was before. Last time he was here was when he and Steve…

 _No._ Now was not the time for a walk down _that_ memory lane.

May frantically shoves empty chip bags, clothes, and dirty dishes away, clearing the couch enough for him to have a seat. “Sorry for the mess, I—um...well, I wasn’t expecting company, but uh…please, make yourself at home.” She makes her way to the doorframe where the kitchen meets the living room, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, more out of a habit of fidgeting rather than for appearance. “Would you—would you like some tea? A coffee or something, maybe?” 

“No, no, I’m fine. I’ll really only be here for a minute. But thank you.”

Another silence settles into the room, into his bones, and he almost wishes this one could last forever because he fears the inevitable question.

“So, why are you here?”

He lets it linger, lets it hang in the air for a second too long. Despite having had three years to think about his answer, he wasn’t ready. Nothing could prepare him for this.

“You know, my daughter turned one yesterday. We had this little celebration, just us, picnicking in the yard out by the lake. I mean, it wasn’t—wasn’t anything fancy. But it didn’t matter, because there was my wife, and our girl, and the sunset on the water. It was just...so beautiful. And still, all I could think about was all the people who lost that.” His eyes glance down because he can’t bear to look at her for this part. “People like Peter. So, I guess I’m here to say I’m sorry.”

She crosses her arms, leaning back against the wall in some sort of confusion. “That’s a long way to come for condolences. And to be frank, I don’t really have a need for those—”

“His death is on me.” He makes the mistake of looking up, and his heart sinks. Her expression is one he can’t quite read, yet is familiar with and understands completely. A shocking devastation, an acceptance. “It’s on me.” There’s a burning in the back of his throat, the one that is usually accompanied with tears, and he barely manages to get the words out before he chokes.

May’s silent, and somehow, it’s worse than anything he ever imagined she would say. When she finally moves, it’s toward the hallway, only beckoning him to keep up with a slight nod of her head.

She leads him to the last door on the right. It’s been years, but he knows this room well. Blue walls covered in random New York stickers and Star Wars posters, desk still a mess of notebooks and tinkered gadgets, all covered in a layer of thin dust. The closet was left open and nearly empty, his clothes packed neatly in multiple boxes on the floor.

“I just started putting his things away,” May suddenly says from behind him. She crosses over to one of the smaller boxes in the room and pulls out a small, wooden picture frame. “I couldn’t bear to come in here. Couldn’t look at his stuff, let alone touch them.” 

He follows as she sits down onto the bed, its rusted, unused springs creaking under her weight. The photo rests in her lap as her thumb traces over it with a tenderness he now knows from experience is something only parents reserve for their child.

“I wanted someone to blame. And I’m going to be honest, for a long time, I blamed you. God, at first, it was so _easy_ to blame you. But somehow it got harder and harder to tell myself it was your fault. Because it wasn’t. Whatever happened with Thanos, the… the snap, no one could have stopped that. And even if it was you who got him involved and put him in danger, I have to be thankful that you gave him the chance to fight when others couldn’t.”

She reaches out and places the frame in his hands, gently closing his fingers around it. “It’s not on you, Tony. Don’t put yourself in that position. That guilt, it’s heavy, and not yours to carry.”

Only now does he see the contents of the photo. Who had taken the picture, he doesn’t remember, but it’s of him and Peter the night of the Stark internship banquet. Peter beams as he holds his certificate in one hand and puts up bunny ears behind Tony’s head with the other. It feels like they’d just taken it yesterday, yet the memory has faded, blurred at the edges.

_Fine, you get one picture, kid. But just so you know I’d have other people pay me for this._

When he smiles, he barely notices the tears running down his cheeks to the corners of his lips, but the bitter salt comes with a wave of relief, and for the first time in years, Tony felt free.

* * *

Seventeen chairs sit in a circle in the center of the room. Three years ago, it would have been fifty. 

Steve likes to think of it as progress. 

It’s been like this for the past two months. People come and go. Everyone has good days, bad days, days in between, but they’re here when they need it, and sometimes that’s enough.

At least, it’s enough for him.

They take turns speaking, sharing, _healing_. Some just sit in to listen, and he allows them to do so silently, as unnoticed figures in the back of the room, but today, he finds himself paying more attention to them than usual, looking for the familiar shadow of Natasha, hoping that this time, she finally joins.

“I thought I saw her the other day.” Nolan sits next to him, a tall man merely a couple years older than Steve himself (sans the seventy years spent in ice, of course). He’s one of the few that’s been here since day one, always open to sharing and likewise, there to listen.

“There was this girl with long brown hair walking by and she was wearing this red sweater that looked just like hers. It wasn’t until I saw her face that I really realized it wasn’t. You’d think three years later I could learn to move on, but the truth is, it just gets harder. I can’t move on, because every time I do...every time I try, I can’t help but feel guilty for it.”

The room falls into a pensive silence as all eyes turn to Steve, awaiting some sort of validation, wisdom, advice. All of which, he is aware he’s better at giving than following. Rarely does the thought occur anymore now that it’s been years, but sometimes he thinks about how much better Sam would have been at this whole thing.

Sam. The memories have gradually become less painful as parts have begun to fade away, but there are some things that never leave. He sees Sam’s smile in window glares, hears Bucky’s voice in passing cars, telling him not to make any stupid decisions until he gets back. _He’s not coming back_.

Steve still has to remind himself of that. It’s hard when Bucky had seemingly come back from the dead once; Steve almost expects him to turn up at any moment again. But it’s different this time. They’re gone.

Gone.

“It’s difficult, I know, but every step forward is a step forward.” Steve rests his elbows on his knees, releasing a pent up sigh. “When I came out of the ice, I lost everything. I lost people I loved. Friends. Family. And it took twelve years, but I finally found a new one. It doesn’t replace the one I lost, but it reminds me that happiness is within our reach. We just have to learn to take the little victories. And we have to try. Try to move on, because it’s what they would want.”

When the clock strikes four, the group disassembles. Chairs are stacked back up against the wall, hands are shaken, hugs and numbers given as people slowly file out the room. Steve remains as he usually does to answer questions and exchange the occasional pleasantries with regulars, watching as the last few leave. 

Just as the doors swing shut behind the final attendee, a loud buzzing interrupts the lonely quiet. He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and reads the name displayed on the glowing screen before deciding to answer.

“Rhodey?”

“Steve—” there’s a strange sense of relief in his friend’s voice. 

“Rhodey, what’s going on?” Before he answers, Steve feels like he already knows the news and it fills him with dread.

“Steve, you have to get down here now. It’s Nat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote Tony's part before watching Spiderman: Far From Home, so yes, in this verse May wasn't snapped. Add that to the list of canon divergences to come. More Stevenat content on your way. Thanks for reading, and feel free to send in suggestions for future chapters!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! So I know I said my last update would be Christmas, but life came at me like a heavy loaded truck, so here it is two months too late (yet again). Hopefully the angst, smut, and slight fluff can make up for it :) Thanks for reading!

Tchaikovsky plays softly through her headphones. A simple four four count, soft violins, and a touch of piano. Her feet sting with blisters underneath the satin shoes, her muscles aching with every leap and turn, but she loves every second of this. 

If Natasha ever truly had a permanent home in her life, it would be here: somewhere between the music and the movement, where agony meets beauty and art is made in the blood shed when she steps over that edge.

The music ends as softly as it began and she chases her fatigue with a swig of rum, relishing the burn as she’s learned to accept all forms of pain. 

She’s used to it by now: all the hurt in her life, and she has the Red Room to thank for that. They taught her to think that it was all she could ever have, that it was all she was worth. So when she had finally found her family, when she had found Steve, that warmth, acceptance, and dare she say, _love_ , felt completely foreign.

Undeserved.

The road to redemption isn’t easy. Every time she takes a step forward, it’s as if there’s a force pushing her back, and rarely does she find herself winning the battle.

Natasha catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and takes another swift sip of alcohol before throwing the flask aside. Pulling the headphones that hung around her neck over her ears, she allows the music to swallow her thoughts, her eyes fluttering shut as she gets a little more lost in the melody of the strings. When she opens her eyes, her body follows in movement with a perfect, practiced fluidity.

 _“Again!”_ _Madame B shouts from the corner of the room._

 _One of twenty-eight young ballerinas with the Bolshoi_ —

The memory comes so suddenly, Natasha falters on her turn.

_“Again!” A gun goes off. The gun in her hand, smoking as she points it at a target._

_The training is hard_ —

Head pounding, heart racing, her legs nearly give out beneath her.

_“Again!” She holds a knife to the throat of the girl who sleeps beside her. She’ll make her death quick, but it wouldn’t be painless. The blade runs against her neck with an awfully guttural scream._

_But the glory of the soviet culture_ —

Her fist smashes into the mirror. When her hand comes away from the glass, it’s slick with blood as broken shards cut into her skin. She pulls a piece of glass out from between her knuckles and watches the redness flow down her wrist. 

 _The glory of the soviet supremacy_ —

The sound of her heart hammering behind her ribcage fills her ears until the thumping is so loud it hurts. She’s suddenly aware of the way she struggles for every breath, gasping for air. Everything blurs, and before she can catch herself, she’s falling to the floor. Natasha barely registers the front door opening before her vision goes black. The last thing she hears before she finally drifts is Rhodey shouting her name.

* * *

The drive home seemed longer than the forty minutes it took, but Steve manages to get back to the Avengers facility with his motorcycle in one piece. 

Three years ago, Steve never called the place home. He still doesn’t, not the way Natasha does, and sometimes it pains him that this is it for her. 

He finds her in her room, or what’s become _their_ room. Rhodey stands by the door, his back against the wall as he rests a concerned glance at Natasha, who lies curled up on the bed, asleep. Steve quickly notices the bandages wrapped around her right hand, blood seeping through the gauze around her knuckles.

He turns to Rhodey, careful to keep his voice down. “What happened?”

Rhodey shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I was coming by to drop something off and I found her in the studio. She just...collapsed. Think she hit the mirror.” He sighs, crossing his arms and shifting his weight. “I’ve seen Tony go through similar episodes—PTSD, anxiety, addiction—I’m worried about her, Steve. Thanos hurt everyone, but Nat…”

“I know.” The words left unsaid hung heavily in the air.

Ever since the Battle of New York, the Avengers had become Natasha’s family. She never admitted it out loud, but Steve could see how content she was around them: the way her shoulders would soften, her walls seemingly down. And when the Sokovia accords had broken the team, she had watched it fall apart and tried desperately to put the pieces back together.

Until Thanos ripped away everything that remained.

Maybe that’s why even now she clings to the job, to the work. It’s all she has left.

“I can stay to keep an eye on her tonight.” Rhodey offers softly. The suggestion almost comes as a surprise to Steve, and he’s suddenly reminded of the fact that no one knows. No one knows about _them_.

Steve shakes his head. “It’s okay, I’ll stay. Thanks Rhodey.”

Rhodey shoots him a somewhat knowing look, a sad smile on his lips. Before he leaves, he puts a firm hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You take care, Steve.” _Take care of her._

Rhodey’s footsteps are still echoing down the hall when Steve turns his attention to Natasha. Her fiery red hair is splayed over the white pillows in soft waves, a few tendrils falling over and framing her fame. His old, worn cotton tee almost swallows her small frame, but it’s one of his favorite looks on her. As he walks to her side, he can’t help but notice how peaceful she looks like this, caught in a dreamless sleep, her chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths. It’s almost out of a force of habit that he pulls the comforter over her shoulder, gently enough to not wake her, but her light hum of satisfaction lets him know she knows he’s there. 

They’ve been like this for two years now. Whatever _this_ is. For Steve, it’s hard not to want to define it. After all, he came from an age where people were quick to “go steady” and eager to settle down. And for a while, he had wanted that with Peggy.

But that was before.

Before the war.

Before what seemed like the end of the world.

Before Natasha.

With the ice, HYDRA, and Thanos, Steve hasn’t much luck with love, but he’s had enough experience to realize that whatever this is between himself and Natasha, it might be the closest thing to love he’s ever had. Their bond, connection, _relationship_? It goes beyond romantic love or lust. To him, she’s a partner: the one person whose loyalty never falters, who’s always there, and perhaps the only constant left in his life, and he clings onto it with all of his stubbornness, all of his hope. And despite everything they’ve been through, everything he’s been through, sometimes he catches himself wondering if it was all fate’s cruel way of bringing them together.

“Steve?” Natasha’s green eyes flutter open in a haze of sleep. 

“Hey.” He kneels down next to the bed, pulls her bandaged hand to his lips, and presses a soft kiss to her knuckles. “I’m here.”

“Where’s Rhodey?” 

Steve almost smiles because it’s so damn her to worry about other people first. “He went home.” There’s a small beat as they both avoid the topic of what happened before.

“What time is it?” Her brows furrow with the question.

“Six. You hungry?”

She shakes her head. 

“Okay. I’ll spare you the tragedy of me cooking dinner, then.” He’s aware that it’s a half-assed remark on his own culinary skills, but it wins him a smile.

“Come to bed?” It isn’t so much of a question as it is a request, a plea, and despite how early it is, Steve obliges, kicking his shoes off before climbing under the covers next to her.

Natasha tucks herself into Steve’s chest and he brushes his nose against the crown of her hair. The lavender scent of her shampoo has become unknowingly familiar over the years and he finds it somewhat soothing now. He traces a finger down a strand of hair, caressing her jawline. They lay in the peace and comfort of each other's breaths for a moment, relishing in the warmth until he breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

There’s a second of deliberation, but she responds nevertheless, a soft breath against his chest. “Me too.” 

“Don’t be.” Steve tips her chin up to meet her eyes and it’s all there: years of pain and fear, hundreds of unanswered questions, a million unnecessary apologies, welling up in tears that threaten to fall. He knows she’s not ready to put it in words, not yet, but he knows he’ll be there to listen when she does.

For now, that’s enough.

And all he can do is kiss her. At first, it’s sweet, slow, delicate, his lips barely ghosting over hers. But the contact is apparently exactly what she needs because the next thing he knows, her lips are crashing into his and it’s messy, all teeth and tongue, but he lets her take and take and _take_.

With a single push on his shoulders, she flips them around so that he’s pinned to the bed while she straddles his growing hardness between her legs, not bothering to suppress a heady moan at the much needed friction. Her hands are deft, desperate, as she reaches down to undo his jeans, but before she can pull out his length, he grabs her by the wrist to stop her.

“Natasha.” They’re going too fast. He usually wants to take his time with her, only she has other plans in mind. 

Gently peeling his hand from her wrist, she guides his fingers down to the ache between her thighs. His throat catches when he feels her wetness through the thin fabric of her underwear. “I just need you inside me.” She leans down to kiss his jawline. “Please.” Her voice is thick with wanting, so he lets her have him. All of him.

Her underwear comes off in a moment no longer than their lips leave eachothers’ for breath. This time he doesn’t stop her when she reaches for his length and slips it inside her heat with a lewd moan. She’s tighter than usual without the foreplay, but the way her face contorts in pleasure gives him confirmation that she enjoys the stretch. His hands move to her waist as she rides him, his hips rising to meet hers as she sets an unrelenting pace. It’s crude, the way their sex sounds against each other, the smell of passion in the room, and the fact that they're both still clothed, but it just brings him closer and closer to the edge. He knows she’s nearly there too, so he drops a hand to her clit and watches as she comes apart seconds later, a string of Russian curses on her lips. His own release follows closely and she holds him tighter as he spills inside her.

They lay spent, still clothed, with her collapsed over him, face buried in the crook of his neck, for what seems like eternity. As their breaths even out, she rolls over to his side, pulling the blanket to her chest.

Just before Steve is about to drift off to sleep, he feels her lips murmur against his arm. 

“Today was Lila’s birthday.”

He opens his eyes. She’s staring off into the corner of the room, sadness lurking through the greens of her irises. 

“She would’ve been sixteen.” Natasha pauses at the thought, but he doesn’t speak. He just listens. “And I just can’t shake the thought of him being alone.”

A few months after Thanos took his family, Clint had gone off the map. No phone calls. No emails. Not a single word. They checked everything. Bank statements. Search histories. Print records. License numbers. But the only clues to his whereabouts were the brutally dismembered bodies he left in his trail.

Steve remembers the first time they found it: the connection between the massacres. All the victims had been gangs, mobs, and human trafficking organizations, the kind the Avengers would have taken down anyway, except the hooded katana-bearing vigilante didn’t seem to care about making a mess and showing no mercy.

Natasha drank herself to sleep that night.

It hurts him to see her like this, but he knows not to make promises. He can’t guarantee they’ll find Clint. Can’t guarantee if they’ll want to. So he says the one thing he knows is certain. 

“He’s never really alone. Not while we’re still here.”

The words linger in the air, and he watches her take it in as the lines between her brows unfurl.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I guess no one ever really is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, and for all the love on my last work. It really gave me the drive I needed to get this baby out. Hoping to get the second chapter up some time in the next two weeks. Please feel free to leave comments on what you want to see next because I’m always open to new ideas!


End file.
